The Weight of You
by manyissues101
Summary: [Cloudgeal] Cloud's certainly lighter after seeing Zack and Aerith again, and forgiving himself, but there's still one more person that he needs assurances from before he can finally let his guilt go.


Cloud Strife has slept a lot of places. From small rickety bed in his mother's house, to tents and inns around the entire world, a bedroll in an abandoned church, and now his own bedroom above the bar. Moving back in with Tifa was one of the little choices he'd made in an effort to appease her and stop distancing himself. Besides, with all of the flowers destroyed, he couldn't bring himself to stay in the church he'd once thought of as a refuge, but used more as a tomb. So he'd gone back to the little bedroom above the bar, nothing but a desk a small, single bed. It was plain, and mostly empty, but it was his. He couldn't even remember if he'd ever had his own bedroom before this. Certainly not in Shinra, where all the cadets slept in rows of bunks against the wall, crammed in like chocobos in a stable. But then…

A large bed, big enough for two grown men, comfortable sheets, a pillow on the right side just for him, a warm body that curled up against his at night, feeling safe and protected and… Loved.

Sometimes the sheer force of his memories was enough to push Cloud to his knees, reeling, and this was one of those times. Memory was a tricky thing, and you could remember something without _really_ remembering it, without really knowing why. He'd remembered Angeal from Zack's memories, remembered a kind teacher who toted his honor around on his back, a man who fell from grace on a broad white wing. But now the memories were flooding back. Angeal, _his_ Angeal, big hands and warm arms, an apartment that meant safety to him, curled up on the couch reading, exchanging smiles over dinner, teaching and learning, kisses, so many kisses, I love you I want you I need you, and…

Cloud brought his trembling hands up to cover his face, to hide from the world around him and try to burrow himself back into his memories, into the thought of a man who loved him and held him and made a shy little cadet feel like the most captivating thing on the planet. His face, his voice, his body…Angeal…

He was on fire, burning white hot from the inside out, the line of their bodies pressed together was the kindling and the man kissing him was the gasoline and they were going to burn each other alive but he wanted more, pressed himself tighter up against solid muscle and then there was friction, sparks flying around them like fireworks, bottle rockets in his head as he arched and they kissed with an urgency because they were burning themselves alive, but they were made for each other, made for this—

…

He'd tried to work up the courage for days now, but the words always seemed to stick in his throat, scared and unsure. He did and he knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. It was like holding his heart in his hands and asking this man to reach out and take the half that already beat for him, and he wanted to say it, but he stammered and stuttered and lost his breath. Instead he just ran careful thumbs all over a face that he already knew so well, tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the wide set of his lips that quirked into a small smile under these ministrations, the stubble peppering his jaw. I love you I love you Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. It felt so right in his head. "I…" he swallowed carefully, stroking the pad of his finger over quirked brows. "I…" A gentle hand came up and encircled his wrist completely, bringing it down to kiss each of the fingertips that had memorized his face. "You're my dreams now," he said simply, honestly, and Cloud knew that was as tender and meaningful as any I love you could ever be.

…

"_You're sixteen—"_

"I'm not a child!" He reached out and grabbed the man's hands, and he could certainly pull them away if he tried, but Cloud ran them down the length of his body, his skin prickling even now under the parody of a touch, and those hands didn't even try to pull away… "I want you. I know that. Please…"

He could see the conflicting emotions flitting across a normally stern face. Certainty wavered, replaced with desire, then guilt and shame and need, and when Cloud returned the favor and started touching, tracing the hard muscle through his uniform top and lower, lower, lower, there was pleasure…

"_I'm your commanding officer," but he sounded unsure now, like he was running out of excuses, tired of fighting this flood of want._

_Cloud wasn't used to feeling this bold, but one of them had to be, and he felt a little thrill run down his own spine when he leaned in and whispered, "Then command me to stop."_

He trembling now, under the weight of all of these memories and what they were, what they meant, and then he remembered the sword. The Buster Sword, so lovingly tended to, carefully polished and rarely used, dreams and honor, and now it was stuck in the ground on a cliff outside of Midgar, rusted and abandoned, and Cloud curled in on himself and, for the first time, allowed himself to cry. For all of the things he'd lost, all of the what ifs and could have beens, for the pain and guilt of losing and loving and forgetting, for Zack and Aerith and Angeal, because how could he have lost this for so long? How could he have forgotten someone that he'd loved so much he'd thought he was going to burst with it? To forget Angeal, forget kind eyes and sweet whispers and a big hand resting protectively on his lower back…it was unforgivable. Aerith and Zack had forgiven him, had never blamed him, but where was Angeal? It didn't matter. Cloud wouldn't forgive himself, not again. Not for this.

Tifa called to him as he rushed down the stairs, out the bar, and even though his heart panged with guilt (you said you wouldn't do this again, you promised her, all that she's done for you, you owe her that much) he didn't pause to answer, just jumped onto his bike and took off with a roar of the engine, barely paying attention to the city fading away behind him as he raced to the bluffs, a familiar ride that he'd taken so many times before over the barren, rocky terrain.

He could have made the drive with his eyes closed, and he almost did, blinking furiously behind his goggles to keep the tears at bay, trying to stay on his bike and stay focused as memories rushed to the surface. He'd opened the floodgates and they'd all washed in at once, filling up his head and trying to escape as tears. Making pies in the kitchen, sword training on cool, crisp evenings, a few days off in Banora, where Gillian Hewley actually _thanked_ him, the smell of fresh air and soil, getting tipsy on champagne on new years, every moment that he'd spent with this man suddenly rose to the surface, washing away everything else.

Only one thing could bring him out of the memories, and that was the sharp pang he felt whenever he approached this place, of death, of guilt, of Zack. And there was the sword, just as he'd left it, stuck at an angle in the dirt, the metal cracked and rusted, surely a good blow would shatter it to pieces and he'd thought it was hard enough to breathe before, but Angeal's honor and dreams broken beneath his feet, old and worn and left to die out here in memory of someone they'd both loved was just _wrong_. He took it reverently, flinching with shame at how abandoned it looked, angry at himself for ever just leaving it there, for disrespecting both Angeal and Zack by not taking care of the last gift they'd left for him.

"You…" he swallowed pitifully, unsure of what to say, or if he even should. He talked to Zack here sometimes, and he didn't know if the man heard him or not, but he'd seen Zack in the church, felt him during his battle with Sephiroth. Zack was here, there, somewhere. He believed in Cloud. He'd forgiven him.

But Angeal?

A sudden flash of something that wasn't even his—he was getting better at picking out the nuances in memories, deciding if he'd stolen it from Zack or if it was one of his own, and this one definitely wasn't one of his. _Angeal smiling down at him (him? Them? Zack) and giving a little quirk of the lips, a shadow of the smile that he'd show private. "You're a little more important than my sword. But just a little."_

And if Zack was only just a little more important than the Buster Sword then what was Cloud, the one who defiled it? Just a failure of a cadet who ruined his sword and forgotten all about him and gotten Zack killed. Angeal was definitely right to stay away from him—

Panic welled up inside his chest and he fought to breathe, sinking hard onto his knees, sharp rocks digging into his skin that he only felt as an afterthought. I'm sorry I'm so sorry I let you down I forgot you I lost you I love you I couldn't save you I ruined this I—

A warm hand rubbed little circles into his back and Cloud choked back a sob because it didn't matter that he'd forgotten, he knew that touch, that familiar, comforting weight. He didn't dare turn around, remembering the way Zack and Aerith disappeared when he tried to get a good look at him, and he didn't need to _see_ anyway, he remembered every line of that face now. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something, anything, but it was like he was sixteen again, declarations of love sticking in his throat. "I…I'm…"

"Hush," Angeal interrupted, though not unkindly. His voice was everything that Cloud remembered, gentle and steady. "I know. You don't need to say anything."

"But, I—"

Hands hooked under his shoulders and lifted him into a kneeling position, and then there was a warm presence against his back. Angeal was hugging him, holding him the best that he could, and Cloud kept his eyes screwed shut just in case, because he couldn't lose this, not yet. His breath hitched and he had to try so hard not to cry, he remembered how much it hurt Angeal to see him cry.

"You were everything I could have asked for." He could almost feel the breath against his ear. "You've done so much more than I ever could have, so much good. I'm so proud of you, Cloud. You're remarkable." The words were said with such emotion, such reverence, and he couldn't ever remember (though that admittedly didn't mean much) hearing Angeal sound so…moved.

"But the sword—"

"I don't need the sword when I have you, do I?"

Cloud couldn't help the soft noise that he made, nor could he stop the tears that finally overwhelmed his closed eyes, squinting them open only just enough. Angeal only held him tighter, closer, so solid and real that it was easy to pretend the moment was more than it actually was, that it could last forever.

But there were limits, and Angeal seemed to be able to read his fears just as easily as ever. "I was always there, Cloud. Always. But I had to wait for you to remember."

The "because I wouldn't have been able to bear it otherwise" went unspoken.

"I'm sorry it took so long," he managed to choke out.

Lips pressed against the shell of his ear; the parody of an old, affectionate gesture. "I'd wait forever if I had to. I only want you here, happy and safe. We'll have all the time in the world." He paused, and his voice rang out with a smile. "The Lifestream is a lot like a flower garden."

Laughter bubbled up out of his throat, surprising even himself, but of _course_ it did.

"And you'll be there…?"

"Waiting for you." He nuzzled his face into Cloud's hair. "Turn around, Cloud. Look at me."

No! "But then…you'll…"

Another little kiss behind his ear. "Look at me."

He felt his head turn, body betraying mind at the command of one man that he could never ignore. The arms around his middle loosened so he could twist in their grasp, and maybe, just _maybe_, if he was slow enough he'd never have to actually see…

A smile. A real, genuine smile, and watery glowing eyes. The moment seemed to last forever and pass too quickly at the same time. That was love in his eyes, love just for him, proof that it was real, not some half imagined fantasy of a lovesick teenager. Angeal Hewley loved him and loved him still. He was waiting for Cloud and yet he was with him right now, and always would be. Even as he faded right before Cloud's eyes, as the comfort of the arms encircling him disappeared, he was still there.

Cloud couldn't help but think about the last time he'd lost someone on this bluff but, this time, he didn't cry.

…

He'd spent weeks working on it, throwing himself into his new task with everything he had. He knew he was worrying Tifa (the last time he'd been so tirelessly devoted was when he was trying to figure out the secrets of geostigma, so he couldn't blame her), especially when she'd come up that first night to see what he was working on, but this was important. He had to do it, for Angeal, for Zack, for _himself_. So when he knew that he'd finally finished, when he was satisfied with the blade, he took it to its final resting place. He stood there for a few minutes, his forehead pressed against the cool metal, and thought about the man who had wielded it originally, who'd treated it with love, respect, and reverence, the same way he'd treated the one who held it now. With a small smile, Cloud stuck it into the loose soil beneath the missing floorboards.

And there it would rest, good as new and gleaming, in the church where Zack met Aerith, where Angeal's memory had stayed behind to protect her, where things seem to start, the only place in Midgar where flowers grew. Another memory came trickling back, but this time he was prepared for it.

"_Why don't you try growing a garden outside? I know there's not a lot of space for that sort of thing, but I'm sure you could find somewhere." Not that he minded the potted plants around the apartment, they smelt better than any artificial air freshener ever could, and they gave the simple place a splash of color. _

"_I've tried," Angeal answered, gently patting soil around a seed he'd just planted in a clay pot, and with a small smile Cloud wondered where they'd possibly fit this one, there were planters in every part of the apartment, but somehow Angeal always found space for one more. "They just don't grow as well outside. It's better than below the Plate, because at least they do grow, but they're always small, and dull. I'd love to grow a flower garden, but this will have to do for now." He smiled at the pot and Cloud thought that it shouldn't have been possible for a man his size to be so…cute, but he was. There was not other word for it, and Cloud had to bite back a giggle that would betray him._

"_You can have one in Banora, after you retire. Flowers from all over, and fruits and vegetables like you're always talking about." Cloud liked to mention this future a lot, some impossible world where Angeal just retired, safe and healthy and whole, but Shinra let him go and they settled down in Banora together, on a farm with orchards and chocobos and the rest of their lives. It was the only version of the future he was willing to think about, this one where they were happy. Angeal usually indulged him, though he could always see the sadness that crept into his smile._

"We can have one," he corrected, and Cloud beamed at him, because that's what he was supposed to do, and he wanted that future anyway, wanted it more than he could say. He didn't want to think about Angeal dying, but he knew that if the man had to go, he'd want to do it peacefully like that. After a long life of being honorable and helping people, surrounded by the people he loved, and a garden of beautiful flowers.

He smiled at the memory, actually smiled, and caressed the cool metal of the sword the way he would a lover's face. Days of shining and polishing the metal and he could see his own reflection in it now. He was proof that Zack Fair lived, and now here he was, shining in Angeal's honor.

You're my dreams now.

"I love you," he said, voice steady and clear, free of any hesitation.


End file.
